“If it was Egypt, Hugh, my boy, or Iran,” the director had said in benevolent tones, “why, that kind of rumor I could see, that I could generate interest in.”

In the White House, Hugh correctly deduced, but by then he was angry enough to be indiscreet. “Sir, this isn’t a rumor. We have confirmed reports of Korean terrorists training in al-Qaida camps-”

“Do you have proof of al-Qaida involvement in this particular operation?” the director said sharply.

Hugh set his teeth. “No, sir.”

The director lost interest. “Hugh, I think it’s time for you to come home. Let us debrief you, get all the facts laid out on the table-”

“With respect, sir,” Hugh had said, “there isn’t time. According to my informant, their plan is already in motion. We have to act. We must act. Now.”

There was a momentary silence. The director was probably surprised that the worm had finally turned. “Hugh, my boy,” he had said slowly, “I understand your concerns, and I appreciate the hard work you’ve put into this operation, but like I said, you come on home now. I’m not even going to slap your wrist for hightailing it out of here without permission. I tell you what, we’ll put some people on it, some good people, we’ll investigate these reports and track this celium of yours down.”

“Cesium, sir,” Hugh said, biting off the words. “Cesium-137. I’ve got a lead on its whereabouts and I want to pursue that lead. Sir.”

The director’s voice cooled. “You said you were in Tokyo, did you not? There is a Northwest flight out of Narita that’ll put you into Dulles at eight-oh-five tomorrow evening.” There was a forced chuckle. “Seems odd to think of flying almost seventeen hours and getting in the same day you leave, don’t it?” He became very brisk. “I’ll have a ticket waiting for you at the counter, Hugh. We’ll see you in the shop tomorrow. Good night, my boy.”

“Yes, sir,” Hugh said, hung up, and started calling all the pilots listed on his cell phone directory. His fifth try produced Frank, who himself happened to be on the ground in Manila, loading a shipment of semiconductors just prior to taking off for Tokyo to pick up a shipment of Sony digital cameras, en route to Memphis with a stop in Anchorage for refueling and crew change, a piece of luck second only to being able to pick up Noortman in the restaurant. Well. Maybe third, after recruiting Arlene.

Arlene, to whom he had said before going through Hong Kong security to the gate to board his plane, “This never happened. You were never here. Write no reports, no memos, submit travel expenses only by hand and only to me. If I’m fired before you make it into the office, you might get stuck with them.”

She shrugged. “I was there. I heard him talk. You had to do this.”

He nodded, grateful that here at least was one person he didn’t have to convince of anything. “I’ll handle the charge for the Hong Kong ticket on your credit card. Leave. Now.”

She had nodded, asking no questions, and the last he’d seen of her was the bottle-green back of her blazer as she left the terminal. Watching the sliding electric door whisk out of her way, he thought that he was going to have to find some way to show his appreciation of her professionalism. Always supposing his own head wasn’t served up on a platter when he got back to Langley.

Frank’s 747 wouldn’t be in for hours, so he hunted up a cybercafe that served coffee and checked his e-mail, hoping Peter would have been sighted, Fang apprehended, the two Koreans identified, anything he could take to the director as proof. There was nothing. Nor had Sara replied to the e-mail he had sent from DC before he left. When his cell phone rang and it was Frank, wanting to know where the hell he was, he’d been genuinely surprised at the passage of time.

“Hugh,” Frank said.

“Huh?”

“Wake up.” Frank shook his arm. “We’re here.”

Hugh blinked blearily through the windshield and saw the immense brown brick shoebox squatting ten feet away. A figure stood on the corner, huddled into a parka. It stepped forward into range of the streetlight and Hugh saw Kyle’s face peering out from the wolf ruff around the hood. “Thanks, Frank,” he said, opening the door and stepping gingerly onto the ice.

“You’re gonna tell me what this was all about someday, right?” Frank said.

“If I can,” Hugh said, and shut the truck’s door firmly behind him. Frank demonstrated his displeasure by kicking up a little snow when he pulled out of the parking lot, but Hugh wasn’t paying attention.

“Hugh,” Kyle said, pulling Hugh into a bear hug and whacking him on the back hard enough to make him slip and almost fall. Icy parking lots. Something else he didn’t miss about home. “What the hell’s going on?” Hugh’s teeth had begun to chatter again and Kyle said, “never mind. Come on, let’s get in out of the cold.”

KYLE CHASE’S OFFICE WAS on the third floor, a square box with a desk, a chair, and a couple of bookshelves. Every horizontal space was piled high with paperwork, magazines, and books. Kyle removed a stack of newspapers and a box of nine-millimeter ammunition from what was revealed as a second chair. “Sit down before you fall down.” He busied himself at a coffeepot on a table.

He was almost as tall as Hugh and had almost as much hair, although his was black. His eyes were blue and his smile was quick and wicked. He was almost as smart as he thought he was, and he, like Sara and Hugh, was a rabid overachiever, which meant he was a rising star with the FBI. He’d had to ask to be posted to Alaska, but he’d always wanted to come home, and in spite of much headshaking on the part of his superiors, who freely prophesied that he was killing his career, he had prevailed. “There must have been something in the water in Seldovia,” Hugh said.

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Thinking out loud.”

The coffee finished brewing and Kyle poured two mugs full, not neglecting creamer and a huge hit of sugar for Hugh. “Terrible Trio,” Hugh said, raising his mug in the traditional toast.

Kyle smiled. “Terrible Trio,” he said and clinked mugs with Hugh. He sat down behind his desk.

Hugh drank. Strong enough to melt the bowl off a spoon and sweet enough to send him into a diabetic coma, the coffee had a reviving effect. “Is Lilah as beautiful as ever?”

“You know she is, you just saw her in October.”

“Kids good?”

“As good as the little monsters ever are,” replied their loving father. “Come on, Hugh. You look like hell. What’s going on? Are you sure Sara is okay?”

“She’s fine,” Hugh said. “So far as I know.”

“Oh. Ah. Well. What’s going on, then? These aren’t my usual office hours. It’s gotta be good to get me in here this early. Or a friend,” he added pointedly.

“The FBI still regard Alaska as one of four states on a short list where the threat of domestic terrorism is regarded as real?”

Kyle stared at him, puzzled. “Are you awake yet? You know we do, along with Montana, Wyoming, and Idaho. It’s why our manpower’s been so beefed up here over the last five years.”

Hugh had had a long flight during which he had marshaled his arguments and worked out a way to phrase them that would make his case without tempting Kyle to have him committed. “Have you considered the possibility of an attack from an international source?”

Kyle set his mug down with a thud. “What the hell’s going on, Hugh?” His eyes narrowed. “Does the CIA have information to that effect? And if it does, why haven’t we been notified?”

“Let me talk it through,” Hugh said.

Kyle looked at him for a long moment. Hugh Rincon was tall and blond and brown-eyed without being in the least bit pretty. His ease of manner belied his intellect, both of which were obvious without being offensive. He was, in short, the kind of man other men liked and all women loved. He always had been, Kyle thought ruefully. Kyle was lucky he’d seen Lilah first. Not that Hugh had ever given anyone but Sara a second look.